In the dormitory, Harry stared at the wand in his hand, its surface glittering, the silk ribbon wrapped around it twinkling as if enchanted. He fell into deep thought.
Even though he hadn't read many of those children's fairytales, and even though he wasn't well-versed in wizarding history—this was a fairy's magic wand, wasn't it? Wasn't it??
Was this really suitable for him?!
Of course, Harry was a contented person; he wouldn't actually shout such thoughts in his mind. But as he sat there, locking gazes with the wand on his bed, he found himself at a complete loss for words—so much so that he even started to worry about the "new magic" the professor had mentioned in his letter.
What if, after learning it, the effect was turning himself into a dazzling dress…?
The mere image of that sent a shiver down Harry's spine, and he slowly put down the wand he had been about to pick up.
Coincidentally, the other two gifts he received seemed to follow a similar aesthetic. One was a transparent, silky hooded cloak—Ron had called it an "Invisibility Cloak." The other was a peculiar black bottle.
The black bottle emitted a strange smell, reminiscent of last night's caterpillar soup. Harry turned it over in his hands, searching for any note or explanation, but found nothing. He could only set it down in confusion.
"Could the owl have delivered it to the wrong person?"
"Impossible," Ron said. "Even Errol has never delivered a letter to the wrong place. Owls are absolutely accurate—it just sometimes takes them longer."
"Is that so."
Harry pondered for a moment, then suddenly asked, "Hey, do you think owls could be used as weapons? They can always locate their target with precision, so if we placed cursed objects on them, wouldn't that let us identify an enemy's location while sneakily attacking them?"
"A minor curse might not work on powerful wizards, but it shouldn't be too hard to harm an ordinary one."
But Ron's expression gradually turned to one of horror.
"…Galloping Gorgons! I told you, you need to stop reading that book!"
He stared at Harry with wide eyes. Under Harry's puzzled gaze, he asked the most glaring question in this theory: "Harry, You-Know-Who is long dead. The wizarding world is so peaceful—where are we ever going to find an enemy?!"
Christmas passed peacefully.
During this time, Victor also received gifts from various professors and a few students. Professor Sprout sent him a pouch of mandrake leaves. Professor Flitwick gave him a book titled The Art of Magical Duels. Snape gifted him several bottles of potions, while Professor McGonagall sent him a white hat—perhaps hoping it would make him seem a little more cheerful.
That hope was likely in vain.
Notably, Quirrell also gave him a gift.
It was another book, titled Magic and Glory.
Victor didn't even need to open it; just from the title, he already knew what kind of content lay inside. So, without hesitation, he placed it directly onto his bookshelf.
To be honest, Victor didn't actually dislike Quirrell. On the contrary, he found Quirrell to share many traits with his own close friends—resolutely pursuing a goal, planning far ahead, and possessing a deep passion for magic. In some ways, Quirrell resembled them a little too much—for instance, in his extreme hatred for a particular kind of wizard who possessed the same magical abilities as himself.
Perhaps that wasn't entirely a bad thing.
Because lately, Quirrell had undergone a rather dramatic change.
On the first day after Christmas break, as Victor descended from the North Tower, heading toward the Great Hall, he ran into Quirrell in the corridor—someone he had barely seen for the entire holiday.
Quirrell noticed him too and flashed a slightly nervous smile.
His overall appearance remained unchanged—still dressed in a long black wizard's robe, still clutching a few books tightly in his arms, still so tense he bordered on neurotic.
But there was one distinct difference in his attire—one that drastically altered his entire aura.
His turban was gone.
That's right—at this moment, Quirrell had removed that hideous, cumbersome, purple turban, revealing the completely normal head beneath.
Below, his short black hair swayed slightly in the corridor's breeze, fully covering the back of his head.
He looked like an entirely normal person.
"G-Good morning, P-Professor Victor."
As they approached each other, Quirrell greeted him with a stammering smile.
To be honest, without the turban, his smile even carried a hint of gentleness—enough to finally convince people that he had once been a top student in Ravenclaw.
"Good morning," Victor replied.
He observed Quirrell's bare head for a few seconds before commenting, "Your complexion looks significantly better. Is it because your research on the formula was successful?"
"Y-Yes! It's all thanks to you, Professor Victor. Your formula was extremely effective—though it was quite difficult to a-adjust at first, I finally managed to get it right in the end. So, you see, I've finally removed my turban. Those vampires w-won't be able to find me anymore."
Quirrell stammered his way through the explanation.
Victor took a moment before recalling why Quirrell had mentioned vampires—his publicly stated reason for wearing the turban. He had claimed that during his travels in Albania, he had been harassed by vampires and could never quite shake them off, which was why he always wore a turban infused with garlic.
Now that the turban was gone, the overwhelming garlic stench around him had also vanished.
That meant the air quality at the staff table would improve significantly.
"I'm genuinely happy for you," Victor said in his usual flat tone. He studied Quirrell's uncovered head for a moment longer before adding in a lighter voice, "I never realized you were so skilled at research, Professor Quirrell. It's only been a short while since I gave you the formula, and you've already managed to complete it."
"Oh, yes, I know it was very difficult. Honestly, it almost d-doesn't seem like something from our world. There were so many unfamiliar elements. My cauldron even exploded s-several times before I figured out a potential solution. But fortunately, you provided plenty of materials… and I had a good teacher."
"A good teacher?"
"…You know who I mean, Professor Victor."
"It's just that the ritual's effects still aren't quite ideal… my teacher would like to discuss it with you sometime." Quirrell's voice turned dry and stiff.
At the mention of his teacher, his nervous expression returned, though it was no longer as extreme as it had been at the beginning of the school year.
"Whenever you have time is fine. But my teacher asked me to tell you—he doesn't like to be kept waiting too long. And also… regarding his secret, he hopes you'll stop t-trying to probe further."
Victor blinked, his pitch-black eyes maintaining that familiar hollow depth, the dark pupils consuming too much space. As he fixed his gaze on Quirrell, the latter suddenly felt an inexplicable sense of dread—the same kind he experienced when facing the Dark Lord.
Considering that he had permanently lost the ability to open his eyes at night, perhaps that fear was no longer so inexplicable.